


Still Doll

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blue Sect, Brainwashing, Gen, Loss of Innocence, Mind Manipulation, Ruminations, Subordination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Elizabeth Midford is the perfect little girl. Perfect little girls do not need swords or sadness or lost forgotten boys. (Or: the systematic transformation of Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford.) “Come here, Eliza. Come and tell us all a story.” Bravat smiles, the Four Lords sitting around him as if he were the sun though Lizzy knows better. He is but a servant—and so is she.A character study of sorts.





	

It is clear, cloudless sky blue day; the white sunshine filters through the Hall’s stained glass windows and scatters soft lavender shapes across the white marble floor. A girl of fourteen stands there in a light silk gown, one made of the finest material—mulberry silk—with golden curls cascading down her back as she stares out a window, observing the still blue sky with not a cloud in sight. A gentleman had delivered a pair of slippers for her not so long ago; they were white and dainty, tied about her ankles sandal style. She very much liked the pretty satin ribbons and thanked the gentleman in soft, dove-like fashion.

Someone’s hand falls on her shoulder and the girl turns around, dutiful and quiet, giving a little curtsey to the violet haired man with silver stars in his hair. She knows it can only be him. “Eliza.” He tilts her chin, cherishing this little doll with her sweet voice and good manners. “You were absent from breakfast this morning.”

She looks at him and there is a clear absence of presence in her gaze, as if her true self is very far away—floating perhaps, on a sea of dandelion down. The girl blinks and her dark lashes flutter, looking so perfectly innocent that Bravat wants to seal her away, to keep her like this always. “I’m very sorry.” She apologizes with profound understanding and her eyes are a little less vacant. “Did I keep everyone waiting for a horribly long time?”

“Not at all.” He responds with an air of nobility, “but we all looked forward to seeing you.” 

“Oh.” She says—and nothing more, for Bravat dislikes it when she speaks for too long a time.

“Yes.” He muses, one hand coming up to brush her flower petal cheek before resting, with glasslike tranquility, on her shoulder. “You must join us for supper. We cannot have you wasting away can we, dear Eliza?”

“No,” she agrees, “of course not. That wouldn’t be pretty at all.”

He smiles and Eliza hesitates, that fatal question on the tip of her tongue while her heart burns with earnest sincerity and desperate conviction. Yet Bravat is a fair judge of character and he dislikes it when his favorite plaything is out of tune; with a sympathetic brush of her hair, he urges her to speak.

So she gathers all her courage, eyes brightening with the sort of raucous emotion Bravat despises, and, clutching at the hand on her shoulder, she remembers who she is _._ “May I please attend another session?” Lizzy begs, an image of purity, emerald, and fresh sunlight. She remembers that she must do something, that she must help _him_ because she loves him and she misses him and—

“Dear Eliza, are you unwell?” Bravat’s voice is cool and mist-like, seeping into her bones like fine spring rain. “My dear, good Eliza—have I neglected you again?”

“N-no!” Her eyes sparkle with pain and torment, looking at this strange diviner with searing heartache. “If there is anything at all I can do…if—the Lords…won’t—won’t they receive me?”

“Not yet, Eliza dear. It is far too soon. Your radiance shines brightly but you must not give into temptation.” He steps closer and gazes into her anguished eyes. He is searching for something, something she cannot define. “My poor child,” there is a murmur of empathy—whether true or false—intertwined in his vaporous tone. “My poor, dear Eliza. You must not think of him so often.” Bravat pauses. “Unless…you _wish_ for corruption?”

“Not at all!” The strength in her hand falters and slowly, she relinquishes her grip on Bravat’s wrist but he is more insistent than usual.

“Then why speak of him? You’ve only returned to the Hall. To your home.”

“I…” she glances off, and the words dissolve in her mouth like spun sugar. Her eyes focus on the faint horizon, indistinct between the blue of the sky and the green, green earth. 

Bravat smiles, a small secret smile she does not see. “Eliza—do you not love your home?”

“Oh I do.” Her voice is a single strand of silk, suspended by stars no one can see. “I like it here very much.”

“No more foolish questions, Eliza dear.”

“Of course not.”

“Shall we see the choir again? They have many new songs—some of which you might like a great deal.” He takes her hand and his doll—his perfect, still doll—readily obeys with silent tranquility.

Together, they depart the main hall.

 

* * *

 

Supper time is very important. Eliza knows this. She is dressed in a diaphanous gown and made to look beautiful—like a moon princess, Bravat reassures. And then she is escorted by his melodious voice to the dining hall, where there are large, suspended chandeliers lit by burning wax candles. Each candle is caged by a measure of cold, ancient bronze while chains rise from ceiling to neck, choking the chandelier in its viselike grip. The entire room is illuminated with a saffron glow and all the polished satinwood tables gleam as plates upon plates of rich, luxuriant food is piled on top, dish by dish.

Tonight, they have prepared stuffed rainbow trout because it is Elizabeth’s favorite. They have decorated the silver trout with pale spring lettuce, red cherry tomatoes, garnishes of lemon and black olives, and surrounding it are crisp golden potatoes, sprinkled with white salt crystals. It is served on a heavy bronze dish with heavy Tudor carvings.

The image facing Elizabeth is that of a boar being gutted—she can see its legs flailing in the air and the knife jammed into its bronze, scalloped side.

It is a hideous, grotesque etching.

“Eliza dear, how was your evening? I trust you were not troubled while you were resting?” Bravat is seated at the head of the table. Lords Edgar and Lawrence are on his right. Lords Greenhill and Violet are on his left. They all have beautiful bronze plates piled high with food and fashionably molded forks and knives and spoons to match.

Elizabeth is seated next to Lord Violet and must lean forward to meet Bravat’s eye. “I slept very well.” She affirms. “I even read a little.”

“Have you now? What fairytale did you enjoy?” Her library has been filled with fairytales in Danish, German, and French—they are the only things she is allowed to see or read.

“ _Die drei Spinnerinnen._ ” She replied in wonderfully accented German.

Bravat, in his eagerness to praise, smiled and clapped lightly, applauding his little doll’s intellect. Lord Edgar, with his false kindness, smiled at Lady Elizabeth as well. “Tell me my lady,” he began, “do you ready nothing but fairytales?”

“I read a little something else.” She replied but in truth, she did not.

_She could not._

“My Eliza is too pure to read anything other than fairytales.” Bravat supplied. “She is too good and I cannot allow the world to poison her purity.”

Lord Violet glanced at Lady Elizabeth but she could hardly make out his expression, concealed as it was under that heavy purple cloak. A servant whose name no one cared to remember materialized from the shadows and poured for Lord Violet a goblet of wine. Elizabeth watched the ruby liquid with fascination until Bravat spoke again.

“Would you care for a bit of poetry, my lady?” Lord Redmond asked. “Wordsworth, perhaps?”

“Only a selection.” Bravat intercepted before Elizabeth could think of a response. “ _The Lucy poems,_ ” he warns, “but no more than that. Mr. Wordsworth has a tendency to implement language that is…unfitting for the eyes of a lady.”

Eliza remembered her place and quietly took a bite of trout.

Erstwhile, Lord Violet drank heavily from his gilded cup but, as usual, said nothing.

“Is it so important that the lady should be resigned to a handful of tales and only a few lines of verse?” Poetry was Lord Edgar’s passion and he could write with ink and quill the laments of the stars, could put to paper the songs of the moon.

But Elizabeth remembers that Bravat is particular—and he could be cruel, too. What if he denied the Starlight Four their songs?

The thought was terrible and Eliza began to tremble. Her mind chided her on this foolishness (and she _knew_ it was foolishness) but she had grown fearful of Master Bravat’s warnings—of never seeing the Four Lords again. Though Eliza could not remember the source of her desperation, she knew she had a due north—a compass rose pointing ahead to the Four Lords and their foreign mysticism.

She needed to see them and Master Bravat was the only one who could take her there.

“Please Lord Edgar,” Elizabeth looked up at the handsome blonde haired man, “I should like some poetry. A few lines from Blake will do.”

“Excellent!” Bravat was placated. “The 1789 publishings then?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Wonderful, Eliza dear. A wonderful choice.”

 

* * *

 

After supper she, the S4, and Master Bravat sat by the fireside though she did not speak. She kept her peace and sat on the rich Turkish rug playing with a glass music box. Little girls liked pretty things and Master Bravat loved giving her such things.

Yet when the hour became ten, Lord Edgar passed by her and pressed into her hand a small leather tome. “For your comfort, my lady.” He smiled, eyes soft and smile sincere.

Elizabeth curtseyed. “Thank you, Lord Edgar. I am grateful for this.”

“Eliza. Come forth and let the Starlights rest. Tomorrow is an important day for them.”

“Yes, of course.” She curtseys again and bids them goodnight. When she turns, she sees that he is seated on a settee, beckoning her near.

“Read to me Eliza.” His eyes are fixed on the little pocketbook in her hands.

She comes to sit on the floor beside him.

“Little lamb, who made thee/ Dost thou know who made thee/ Gave thee life and bid thee feed. By the stream and o’er the mead;/ Gave thee clothing of delight…”

 

* * *

 

Eliza wakes the next day to a new gown of pale, fluttering pink with matching slippers and a beautiful white carnation. _Little girls like pink. Little girls like flowers too._ Master Bravat will expect her to wear them.

(And she must too.)

**Author's Note:**

> (Partially inspired by shinigami-mistress's 'You're a Doll' theory!) 
> 
> \- Die drei Spinnerinnen = The Three Spinning Women 
> 
> \- William Wordsworth ‘The Lucy poems’ were five poems centered around the idealisms of beauty, nature, love, longing, and death. 
> 
> \- “‘The 1789 publishings…’” here, Bravat is referencing William Blake’s poem ‘The Lamb’ from his ‘Songs of Innocence’ collection. It is a counterpart to his poem ‘The Tyger’ from ‘Songs of Experience’. The speaker here is identified as god and was originally set to a melody to be sung. 
> 
> A/N: I quite like how this turned out :)


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